


On The Importance of Nomenclature

by Glittermonkey (Schizanthus)



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 21:09:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schizanthus/pseuds/Glittermonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two roads to finding the perfect name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On The Importance of Nomenclature

**Author's Note:**

> Posted to ff.net back in 1/29/2003.

LONDON -- NOON -- 1972 

Brian Slade sat at the head of the polished mahogany meeting table in the Bijou office, hands steepled, face composed and serious. He regarded the small group of musicians that sat to either side of him -- recruited from the best that London had to offer. He glanced over at Jerry, who was puffing away at his ubiquitous cigar and watching from his comfortable overstuffed armchair, before speaking. 

"Our name, like any other symbol or image which we use to represent ourselves, must be selected with the greatest of care. We must consider every possible interpretation, every nuance that accompanies each word. It isn't merely a reflection of our professional positions as musical artists, you see, but a statement on our views of art, philosophy, and ultimately, life. In coining our name, we are choosing our truth and our path. With that in mind, what possibilities do we have on the list already?" 

Trevor flipped open his steno pad and started ticking off names with his pen. 

"The Camenae?" 

Brian shook his head. "Too obscure. Mythological references are good, but we want people to recognize what we're talking about, to some extent. Besides, weren't there nine muses? There are only six of us." 

"Pity," Trevor muttered. "I thought I'd make a rather dashing Erato, if it came to that." 

A strangled choking sound came from Brian's direction. "Errr... next?" 

"October Ravens?" 

"Too... dark, though moody can be good. I was hoping for something that would convey a sense of flamboyance. Even extravagance. We want to inspire and dazzle, not drive our audience to suicide." 

The lead guitarist scratched out the entry and rolled his eyes. "Okay, how about the Spiders from Mars?" 

"You know I detest bugs." 

"Spiders aren't insects. They're arachnids, I believe." 

"All insects are bugs, but not all bugs are insects. So I reiterate, no bugs." 

"Whatever." 

"However, I do like the other part. Mars. Both mythological and futuristic. Inner and outer space. Ideas that hint of an... otherworldliness," Brian paused, a thoughtful look in his eyes. "Yes, that was good. Jerry, did you get that? We should give that quote to the papers, don't you think?" 

The mutton-chopped manager made a grunting sound and waved for them to continue. 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* 

NEW YORK -- NOON -- 1970 

"Man, we need a name." 

Curt blinked lazily and tried to focus on the voice that was shouting to him over the loud din of randomly banged drums. These "practice" sessions never seemed to help them make any music, but they sure were a good excuse to get together and shoot up afterwards. "Huh?" 

"If we're gonna play shows, we need a name."   
He allowed the words to process for a moment. "Oh. Okay." 

The shaggy-haired guitarist gave up, shaking his head. He kicked at the pile of dirty clothes in one corner of their ramshackle garage/studio instead. An abnormally large and foul-looking specimen of rodenthood went scurrying across the concrete floor, making chittering noises at being disturbed from its sound sleep. 

A shout came from his buddies across the room, "Hey, it's a rat! Kill it!" 

"Let's call ourselves The Rats. Heh heh. Heh heh." 

The group burst out snickering and looked to their lead singer for approval. 

Curt blinked again. "Uh, okay. Cool." He passed out. 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* 

LONDON -- EARLY EVENING -- 1972 

Trevor twiddled his pen and rolled his eyes again while the rest of the band shifted in their seats uncomfortably. He shrugged and started doodling pictures of naked women on his pad of paper while Brian sat there muttering to himself about pressure and expectations and the creation of an alien that was supremely human and some other nonsense. He decided that the naked woman would look better with a mink stole around her shoulders. Then he blinked. Of course! 

"Venus in Furs." 

The mumbling halted in mid-sentence. "What? Say that again?" 

"Venus in Furs." 

The aspiring pop star mouthed the words with an expression that bordered on reverence. A bright smile broke across his face. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. 

Trevor smirked and returned to his sketching. Jerry yawned. The rest of the band headed out for a smoke. 

~ finis ~

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I'm still working on that serious fic, but this popped into being while Ophie and I were driving back from another one of our random shopping binges. Therefore, I place any and all blame for the idea on her. Your fault, babe.


End file.
